


Be Still and Know That I'm With You

by compos_dementis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mostly just gen, sort of johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever had happened during those two years away, it had obviously affected Sherlock more greatly than he'd anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Still and Know That I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt: "Johnlock; Sherlock cries in front of John for the first time." 
> 
> Title comes from "Be Still" by The Fray.

There was something different this time around.

Their last few cases had been thrilling, fast-paced things; Sherlock had solved one of them in under five hours, one of his most impressive records. This one, though, seemed to crawl by on hands and knees. And Sherlock's reaction upon entering the crime scene had been immediately visceral -- the underground basement of a rather prestigious lawyer's home. The house itself was nearly spotless, decorated minimally with expensive vases and furniture, but the basement was dark and damp, like an entirely separate entity from the rest of the home.

John had grown so accustomed to the horrifying imagery of crime scenes that the display before him only provoked a muted reaction from him. The lawyer in question had been strung up like meat in storage, his belly sliced open; he hung from the ceiling on a hook, like a slab of beef. The lighting was poor, the only available light coming from a dim bare bulb on the ceiling, and Lestrade's flashlight offered minimal assistance.

Sherlock began the case as he usually did; by skulking around in silence, taking in what he could from the body before him, the dust on the floor, the blood spatter, and the very little evidence in the otherwise bare room.

But there was something different -- something off. Sherlock's mutterings, unintelligible, were waved off; Sherlock couldn't seem to focus on any one thing. He kept pacing distractedly, halting in his speech, and when John's attention honed in to try to find the source of the problem, he noted Sherlock's breathing was irregular. They were clear signs of anxiety, signs John had been living with for years before Sherlock had come into his life.

As discreetly as he could, he came forward, asking lowly, "Sherlock? You all right?"

"Fine." The clipped, sharp tone of Sherlock's voice insisted he was anything but fine. John felt worry begin to prickle at the edges of his nerves.

"Sherlock," he tried again, reaching his hand out to place it comfortingly between his shoulder blades. "We don't have to do this--"

"I said I'm fine!" Sherlock reeled away from John's touch so fast that John was scared he'd hurt him. Which was ridiculous, as he hadn't even really touched him yet -- but Sherlock's expression was one of fear, etched into every line of his face. John blinked, his hands thrown up in a mimicry of surrender. "Just once, doctor, can you stop prodding me and allow me to do my job?!"

Behind them, Greg and Sally had gone pointedly quiet. John was at a loss for what to say; Sherlock's cutting and condescending words only heightened his concern. John opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the thick silence following that explosion of temper, but Greg beat him to it.

"If this is too much-- you don't have to be here, you know, we can handle it--"

"Why does everyone suddenly think I'm incompetent?!" Sherlock's voice rose, and suddenly it wasn't about the crime scene at all. John tried to cut in, but Sherlock wouldn't let up. "Does no one trust me to get the job done? I told you, I'm fine. Perhaps if I were less distracted, I could get this done in a more timely manner."

John told himself to stay quiet, to let Sherlock get back to it, but he couldn't help himself. "That isn't what we meant--"

Sherlock pulled off his gloves fiercely, starting to storm out of the room. When Sally tried to ask where he was going, he just insisted, "I need a smoke."

There was a silence left behind that felt thick and uncomfortable, even with the corpse still hanging in the center of the room. John wondered what had caused that outburst; Sherlock usually worked just fine in cases like this. It wasn't the gore, that much was obvious. They'd seen a lot worse in their time together, bloodier and messier crime scenes where Sherlock worked unflinching and unfazed. So what was it?

"D'you mind if I...?"

Sally spoke up for Greg. "Go on. We'll find out what we can. We can handle it."

"Thank you." Quickly making his way out of the basement, John slowed his stride as he approached the front door of the house. What would he even say? Sherlock obviously wanted to be left alone about whatever was wrong. But John couldn't be expected to just drop it, could he? Sherlock was always so stony and unaffected; seeing him so shaken was worrisome, to say the least.

He opened the door, stepping out into the fresh air. Rain had begun drizzling down, steady and relentless, and against the colorless pale background, he saw Sherlock's striking figure facing away from him. Sure enough, he caught sight of a glowing orange flame, illuminating the lower portion of his jaw in soft light. John tried to steel himself, ready to argue his point if need be.

"Sherlock--"

John stepped forward, standing beside Sherlock under the overhang shielding them both from the rain, but his words stopped dead in their tracks. Sherlock had a cigarette between his lips, but the hand holding the lighter was shaking so badly he couldn't light it. And when John paid closer attention, he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were wet, brimming with tears.

It was unsettling to see him to ill at ease.

"Hey." John kept his voice gentle and soothing, reaching out and carefully taking the lighter from Sherlock before he hurt himself. He clicked it closed, not wanting to contribute to Sherlock's unsavory habits. Sherlock made a soft, irritated sound, but John took the cigarette as well, plucking it right out of his friend's mouth. "Tell me what happened back there."

"Don't be stupid--"

"No, you don't be stupid. You think I don't recognize PTSD when I see it? I'm not an idiot, you know." He paused, considering his next words. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. But-- I'm here for you. You know that. We all are. You don't have to go through it alone."

Sherlock's mouth pressed into a thin line, but the next moment, his expression softened. The last time John had seen him look so small and lost had been on the rooftop. He didn't want to think about that, focused instead on Sherlock's unsteady breathing, the gentle trembling in his hands and shoulders. When John reached for him again, a hand against the back of his neck, Sherlock shattered.

There was no other word for it, really. He'd only ever seen Sherlock so distraught once or twice -- Baskerville being the most obvious example. Back then, he'd met John's concern with anger and hostility, lashing out in fear like a cornered animal. This was different; something more honest and human, a little piece of Sherlock that John had never seen before.

Whatever had happened during those two years away, it had obviously affected Sherlock more greatly than he'd anticipated. The usually resolute and iron-willed detective that John would follow to the ends of the earth was now a shaking, weeping mess, all because of... what? Not the body. The setting, maybe. John didn't want to imagine what Sherlock had gone through, but he couldn't help it, and every passing imagine in his mind made him feel sick with rage and worry.

How dare they, he thought to himself. How dare anyone lay a finger on him.

It was instinct, what to do next; he turned Sherlock toward him, and leaned up, wrapping his arms around the taller man. The gesture wasn't unfamiliar between them, but it was never like this. Sherlock froze for a long moment before his long arms came around John as well, hesitant and trusting, clasping at the back of John's coat.

After a good ten seconds of simply holding one another, when Sherlock's panicked breaths had calmed down, John pulled away softly. Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes, but he appeared to be more at ease, like a child calmed down from a nightmare. Another silence stretched between them, and John ran his hands down Sherlock's slender arms, squeezing comfortingly.

It took a moment, but Sherlock muttered a quiet, "Thank you," and then a second later, it was as though the entire exchange hadn't happened. His expression hardened again, that mask slipping easily back into place, emotionless and unaffected. He took the cigarette from John's hand, slotting it back into the box where it belonged.

"I'm going back inside," he said, back to his usual self. The only evidence that John hadn't just imagined that whole thing was the wetness still lingering on Sherlock's cheeks -- which he wiped away with the sleeve of his coat, obviously determined to appear strong. "Coming?"

Though John wasn't sure it was a good idea to put him back into that situation, he knew that telling him so would only result in an argument he didn't feel like having right now. So he nodded, falling into step behind him once more.

"Yeah," he said. "Coming."


End file.
